The endless routine of class after class. Of one paper or exam after another until the summer break came and with it freedom.
Freedom.
Funny, but up until that moment it hadn’t occurred to her that she might have more of her mother within her than she cared to admit.
“Miranda left me a message about the two of us helping her excavate and catalog a site. ‘The tomb’ she said and I’m assuming it was that same old lunacy,” Deanna told him, her tone so harsh that she almost winced at the sound of it.
Her father did grimace and immediately admonished her. “If it is in fact Montezuma’s tomb, it would be an incredible find as you well know. Except for the tomb of Ahuizotl, no other Aztec ruler’s burial place has been discovered.”
“It’s unlikely, papi. The Spaniards obliterated all that they could.”
“And the rest was buried beneath the colonial buildings and structures the Spaniards erected. But what if she managed to find it?” he said excitedly, an unusual eagerness in his normally placid demeanor.
“What if she did? Could that be why she’s missing?” she asked.
Her father shrugged, forked up a bit of salad and chewed on it for a long time before answering. “Miranda was quite excited and not just about the tomb. Apparently your mother believed there was something at the site that would be an important find.”
“Important enough for someone to kidnap her?” she questioned and picked up her fork, but then reconsidered and pushed her salad aside, her appetite blunted by the discussion.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to speak to the CIA agent about it in-depth,” her father replied and finally snagged a piece of the garlic bread from the basket. Waving it in the air before her face, he said, “You probably know more than I do.”
“I’m in the dark as much as you are. Unless I agree to help him, the CIA agent refuses to provide me any more information.”
The scent wafting from the bread reawakened her hunger. She snared a piece of bread and bit into the oil-and-garlic-drenched goodness. Murmuring an appreciative sound, she then kept silent, considering their predicament.
She was certain the CIA agent would reveal little more to her father unless he agreed to cooperate, but maybe her papi would consent and help the agent. He clearly seemed to have more of an interest in finding out what had happened to Miranda than she did.
Maybe because he’d been communicating with his ex-wife behind her back! she thought angrily, wondering how her father could have done such a thing. But then again, she had never really asked about her mother after her fifteenth birthday.
On her quinceañera day, she had truly become a woman in many ways, the most important of which was finally letting go of the hope that her mother might actually come home one day.
“You look sad, mi’ja,” her father said, but she was spared from answering by the arrival of their meals.
The teasing comments of the waiter when he served their dinners helped to lift her spirits and by the time they finished the delicious Italian food and shared some espressos, she had driven away the melancholy created by Miranda’s sudden intrusion in her life once again.
Arm in arm, she and her father walked out of the restaurant and strolled the short distance to their apartment building, the early Manhattan summer evening comfortably cool. In the elevator, her father gave her a quick buss on the cheek and got off on his floor, leaving her to continue upward.
At her door, she breathed a tired sigh and opened it. Bolting the double set of locks once she was in her apartment, she tossed her keys into a thick terra-cotta dish—a replica of an ancient ceremonial bowl she had picked up on one of her summer treks.
The mail she had collected from the mailbox in the lobby earned a spot beside the keys, unopened. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with anything tonight even though she had to start her review of the essay papers her students had turned in. She had to provide their final grades to the prep school by the end of next week
Later, she thought, placing her briefcase down against the leg of the foyer table. As she walked away, the overstuffed briefcase fell onto its side, spilling the contents of the one side pocket.
The two crumpled business cards fell out and gleamed bright white against the dark cherrywood of her foyer floor.
Damn, she cursed beneath her breath, annoyed by the reminder of Special Agent Santana’s visit.
Keep the cards in case you decide to return to the land of the living.
Bending, she snatched up the cards from the floor and glared at them. Considered all that had happened that day. Repeated Miranda’s message in her brain and what little Santana had told her about lives being at stake. Then she made a decision she hoped she would not regret.
“I sure as hell know how to live,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Absolute determination in her every step, she walked to her telephone and dialed the annoying CIA agent.
After he answered, she said, “Special Agent Santana? I think I’ve got a message you should listen to.”
“Really?” he drawled, the low tones of his voice causing unexpected tension deep in her center.
“When would be a good time?” he asked.
“How about now?” she replied.
Chapter Four
Deanna pushed away from the floor, arching her spine and pressing her hips downward to work out the kinks in her back from the long day. Rising, she finished her stretching routine with a few neck rolls, feeling serene. Aware she’d need all the peace she could muster to combat the irritation sure to arrive with Special Agent Santana. She rolled up her exercise mat and stuffed it back into the closet by the front door, just in time to hear the buzz of the intercom. Picking up the phone, her doorman announced Santana’s arrival.
“Thanks, Jim. You can let him up.”
With a deep inhale, she braced herself for his visit, hoping the CIA agent would not be as abrasive as he had been earlier.
His knock at her door was forceful, almost demanding, so she took a moment to compose herself before admitting him. When she finally opened the door, he stood there, filling the space. His broad shoulders nearly as wide as the opening and his six-foot-something height imposing.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Vasquez,” he said and waited, clearly in a more conciliatory mode. Or maybe not, she thought as his gaze swooped up and down her body in a predatory fashion.
“Are you done staring, Special Agent?” she said and motioned him in.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you look quite different than you did at school today,” he replied, a dull flush spreading over his cheeks as he stalked past her and into her living room.
Deanna shot herself a quick look. Realizing that her formfitting T-shirt had ridden up during her exercises, exposing an inch or so of flat midsection, she self-consciously tugged it back into place. Following him to where he stood in the middle of the space, dwarfing it much as he had her office earlier, she gestured in the direction of her sofa.
“Please sit, Special Agent,” she said in the kind of tone she used on her recalcitrant students.
The flush along his cheeks deepened and his lips thinned into a knife-sharp slash. Clearly he didn’t like her taking control of the situation, but so be it, she thought. She remained standing while he finally eased himself onto the couch.
He moved gracefully for such a big man, she thought, as he straightened his suit jacket and relaxed into the cushions, laying one muscled arm along the back of the sofa. The action exposed the broad wall of his chest and the first hint of his holster and gun once more. He tracked her gaze and shifted on the sofa to pull his jacket into place to hide the weapon.
“I appreciate you agreeing to see me, Dr.—”
“Deanna. I’m not big on titles.”
“My friends call me Bill,” he offered, but if there was one thing of which Deanna was certain, it was that she wasn’t a friend.
“It’s Guillermo, isn’t it?” she challen
ged, arching a brow and leaning against the top of a chair across from him. Having a higher vantage point created a sense of advantage, false as it was.
Bill was grateful that the chair was hiding his view of her decidedly dangerous body. Coupled with the way she said his name, it was hard not to imagine hearing her utter it in a much more intimate setting. He tamped down his response, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the good professor, who was looking anything but scholarly tonight.
“Guillermo is a little too hard for the Anglos,” he explained, although that was only part of the reason for why he preferred to be called Bill.
A wicked grin erupted on her face. “I’m only half Anglo, Guillermo.”
He knew she had the power because this time there was no avoiding his reaction to the sexy way she said his name. Nearly jumping up off the couch, he rose and strode to the one wall in the living room which boasted waist-high built-in units. The various shelves in them were filled with an assortment of books and knickknacks. Above them on the wall were photos taken of unique spots all over Latin America. Machu Picchu. The Nazca Lines. Chichén Itzá. The Panama Canal. There was a passion in each of the photographs that spoke of the artist’s love for the subjects.
“Beautiful,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her and realizing it didn’t only apply to the pictures.
She approached and came to stand beside him, barely a foot away and he had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Thanks. I don’t consider myself much of a photographer.”
“You took these?” he said, unable to contain the surprise that was likely evident on his face.
She laughed again, the richness of it sexy and disturbing as she glanced up at him, amusement in her gaze. “Is it enough ‘land of the living’ for you?”
Sweat erupted at the base of his spine and heat flushed through his body. “I guess I was too quick to judge.”
She narrowed her eyes, considering his almost-apology. “I guess I was too quick also,” she replied, although she tilted her head at a defiant angle.
He faced her and rocked back on his heels, slightly uncomfortable with her perusal. “Why is that?”
“I never expected you to admit you might be wrong.”
With that she walked over to a small bar built into the corner of the wall unit. Grabbing two wineglasses, she went to pour each of them some, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Thanks, but I’m still on duty.”
Deanna didn’t know what to make of him, but she did know one thing: Pushing his buttons seemed to bring her great satisfaction. So she poured two glasses of wine and sauntered back to where he stood, deliberately rolling her hips. Earning another heated look from him that brought corresponding warmth deep in her center.
She pressed the glass against the hard wall of his chest and said, “Sometimes you’ve got to ignore the rules.”
He raised one brow, but took the glass and followed her back to the sofa and chair. This time she sat beside him and the weight of him on the soft cushions had them both dipping toward the center, the edges of their thighs pressed to each other.
More heat seemed to blossom from that point, but rather than acknowledge it, Deanna just took a quick sip of her wine and asked, “What else can you tell me about Miranda?”
Bill mimicked her actions, taking a small sip before responding. “It all depends on whether you’re willing to assist with the investigation.”
“A catch-22 wouldn’t you say? How do I know what’s involved—”
“Unless I tell you more? Let’s just say it may involve a trip to Mexico City. Possibly one of the outlying areas depending on what we discover once we’re down there,” he advised.
“We? As in you and me?” she asked, not sure that any kind of trip with him alone made sense for her peace of mind.
“You, me and support personnel depending on the info we ascertain about your mother and her activities.”
Deanna took another sip of her wine and then examined him over the rim of her glass. “So where do we start?”
A flicker of surprise erupted again before he schooled his emotions. Clearly he had not expected her to be so forthcoming with her assistance, but he didn’t delay in answering.
“Do you still have your mother’s message?”
With the hand that still held her wineglass, she pointed toward the hand-carved table in the foyer. “Feel free to take the answering machine, but I don’t think it will help.”
“There may be ambient noise, other things that will provide information besides what she said,” he explained.
“What she said is nothing new. Miranda has been looking for the tomb of Montezuma for nearly fifteen years,” Deanna advised, her tone harsh.
“That’s why she left you? To search for the tomb?”
Taking a bigger gulp of her wine, she then replied, “You’ve read my file, Guillermo. You know the answer to that already.”
With a deferential nod, he continued. “I’m assuming that her message indicated that she had found what she had been searching for.”
“It did. Miranda also asked me and my father to come down to Mexico to help her catalog whatever was inside the structure.”
Bill shot a look at Deanna from the corner of his eye. It was difficult to ignore the way her thigh pressed against his and equally impossible not to notice the tension that had crept into her body at the mention of her mother’s message.
“You don’t believe her?”
She hunched her shoulders and peered at the glass of wine she held in her hand. “Even if I did believe her, I had no intention of going to assist.”
Although she didn’t say it, he understood. Deanna had been the sacrificial lamb on the altar of her mother’s ambitions. Finding the tomb wouldn’t change the hurt that Miranda’s abandonment had caused.
“Did your mother mention where the tomb might be?”
The quick shake of her head was followed by her statement, “Until the message, I had no idea where my mother was or if she was even alive.”
“But your father knew,” he said and her head snapped up to meet his gaze, hurt alive in her features.
“My father knew,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her. Despite the low volume, however, it was difficult not to miss the pain behind her words.
“I’m certain he didn’t mean to upset you.”
She swirled the wine around in the glass, seemingly needing a distraction before she asked, “You say that my father reported that Miranda was missing.”
Bill knew there was likely more hurt to come her way during the course of the investigation, but he tried to do what he could to temper what he said. “After Dr. Adams called your father, they discussed the trip down to Mexico. They agreed to speak again the next day, but your father was unable to reach her. After several days of trying, he called the embassy in Mexico City, certain that something was wrong.”
“And why did they assume she was missing?” Deanna asked and took another sip of her wine.
“We had increased chatter from a group we were watching—Primera Mexica. Have you heard of them?”
Another shrug came with a slow nod. “Radical nationalist group. I understand they’ve had several battles with the government because they’ve squatted on public land. Some protests that turned ugly.”
Bill dipped his head to confirm her information. “They’ve gotten even more radical in the past year or so. Our intel says they’re responsible for several bombings and may even have connections to a local drug cartel responsible for violence along the border towns.”
Deanna shook her head and looked up at him, her gaze questioning. “So how is Miranda involved in all that?”
“We had several exchanges between Primera Mexica cells talking about ‘an American woman.’ That she had found something quite powerful that they would soon use. We had alerted the embassy about the possible security threat and when your father called—”
“They put two and two toge
ther. But what could Miranda have found that would be so dangerous?” Deanna mused aloud and swirled the last of the wine around once more.
Bill sighed with some frustration and dragged a hand through his short hair. “I was hoping you could tell me that.”
With a nervous flutter of one hand, Deanna said, “Historically the find would be important. There has been only one tomb discovered before now, but this is Montezuma’s tomb. The last big Aztec ruler. For centuries there’s been conjecture about how he died. If he was murdered by his own people or the Spaniards.”
She paused and he urged her on with a roll of his finger, but she shook her head. “Whatever she’s found, it’s probably related to symbolic power. Like the cross or a flag.”
“Something to stir up nationalist pride? Doesn’t seem so powerful to me,” he said with some doubt.
Deanna released a harsh sigh. “Men have fought and died for far less, Special Agent. Finding the tomb would give Primera Mexica a place on the world stage. It allows them to display the accomplishments of their people and the brutality of the conquerors.”
“Rumor has it the Aztecs were fairly deadly themselves.”
Deanna nodded. “There is at least one codex that speaks of tens of thousands of prisoners massacred in Tenochtitlán alone. But Primera Mexica will spin the message to their favor to get the attention they want. Attention brings money and money brings power.”
Bill digested all that she had said and yet he felt there was still a missing piece to the puzzle. Something more which might explain why someone would be willing to kidnap Deanna’s mother. “Is it possible there is a real weapon inside the tomb?”
Another rough sigh escaped her. “If Montezuma had the equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction, don’t you think he would have used it centuries ago to save his people?”
What he suspected was that Deanna would see nothing worthwhile about finding the tomb and whatever was in it because she had paid too dear a price for that discovery. Her emotions were clouding her analysis and he couldn’t permit that.
The Fifth Kingdom Page 3